Anxiety and Wonder: On Being Human

Maria Balaska
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ANXIETY AND
WONDER
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM BLOOMSBURY

Nihilism and Philosophy, Gideon Baker

The Meaning of Life and Death, Michael Hauskeller
ANXIETY AND
WONDER

On Being Human

MARIA BALASKA
 BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA
29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland

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First published in Great Britain 2024

Copyright © Maria Balaska, 2024

Maria Balaska has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.

For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on pp. xi–xii constitute

an extension of this copyright page.

Cover image: Flowers Made of Earth (© Péris Iérémiadis)

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 Hast thou ever raised thy mind to the consideration of
EXISTENCE, in and by itself, as the mere act of existing?

Hast thou ever said to thyself thoughtfully, IT IS!

heedless, in that moment, whether it were a man before
thee, or a flower, or a grain of sand? Without reference,
in short, to this or that particular mode or form of
existence? If thou hast, indeed, attained to this, thou wilt
have felt the presence of a mystery, which must have fixed
thy spirit in awe and wonder.

The very words, There is nothing! or, There was a time,

when there was nothing! are self-contradictory. There is
that within us which repels the proposition with as full
and instantaneous light, as if it bore evidence against the
fact in the right of its own eternity.

Not TO BE, then, is impossible: TO BE,

incomprehensible. If thou hast mastered this intuition of
absolute existence, thou wilt have learnt likewise, that it
was this, and no other, which in the earlier ages seized
the nobler minds, the elect among men, with a sort of
sacred horror. This it was which first caused them to feel
within themselves a something inevitably greater than
their own individual nature.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Friend.

 To Paul
Στον Παύλο
 CONTENTS

Preface ix
Acknowledgements xi
List of Abbreviations xiii

1 Introduction 1

1.1 Encounters with nothing 1

1.2 Learning from our moods 4
1.3 Meaningfulness and possibility 7
1.4 Structure of the book 11
1.5 Kierkegaard and Heidegger 14

2 What makes us anxious? 19

2.1 Dysfunction or potential? 19

2.2 The ‘riddle’ of anxiety in Freud 26
2.3 Lacan and the anxiety in front of a mirror 31
2.4 Anxiety as a glimpse at our openness 41

3 Anxiety and the origin of human existence 45

3.1 Who are we and what are we for? 45

3.2 Anxiety and spirit 50
3.3 Adam as our origin 53
3.4 Anxiety in the individual life, an insight into our
origin 58
viii CONTENTS

4 Wonder and the origin of philosophy 63

4.1 Wonder at the most usual unusual 63

4.2 From rainbows to meaningfulness: Where philosophy
begins 66
4.3 Heidegger’s reading of the Theaetetus: The wonder at
‘that it is’ 70
4.4 Anxious wonder 75

5 The paradox of anxiety and wonder 83

5.1 Seeing the world as a miracle, and the problem of

nonsense 83
5.2 ‘The paradox is the wonder’ 88

6 After anxiety and wonder 95

Notes 104
Bibliography 142
Index 147
 PREFACE

Centring a book around experiences can be challenging,

particularly when these are unusual and difficult to understand.
Then they can be treated as subjective and met with scepticism,
or worse, with indifference.
The anxious wonder explored in this book may be rare, but
what is even rarer is the attempt and capacity to understand it
in the light of our existence, to recognize in it an insight about
who we are and what we are for. Having the right conceptual
framework for the experiences herein described can make them
appear less alien and strange. This is not the only case where
having the right framework for understanding a state of mind
can allow for that state of mind to occur more regularly and
can enable us to identify it. As we deepen our understanding
of ourselves and the world, our emotional life and our awareness
of it become more complex; this can sometimes manifest
itself negatively in the disheartening phenomenon of individuals
who, failing to mature their understanding alongside their age,
exhibit the affective nuance of teenagers.
Making available to someone an experience that they have
never had before is an impossible task. However, what is not
x PREFACE

impossible is creating conditions for attention. After all, it is

well known to therapists and to those who have undergone
therapy that a great deal of our mental life, the fleeting and the
inconspicuous, becomes present to us only in the context of free-
floating attention.
While writing this book, I decided that I did not want it to
become a merely exegetical project. This decision aligns with an
important theme in the book, that insofar as these experiences
tell us something about the human existence, they connect us
to ourselves as philosophical beings and to philosophy as a
place where the human mind dwells by nature. Thus, I wanted
to find a way to speak to this philosophical dwelling place in
every reader, not just the professional philosopher. Further,
given my background in psychoanalysis, a question arose for me
whether there can be space for our philosophical nature within
psychoanalysis or whether the transcendent dimension of our
existence risks going unnoticed or unappreciated when we
only associate our moods and emotions with worldly concerns.
As a result, I wanted to write in a way that is also accessible to
psychotherapists. For readers more interested in the exegetical
aspects and the secondary literature, the endnotes are the
appropriate place to look.
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

In 2019, I had the pleasure of attending some of Irad Kimhi’s

lectures on anxiety at the University of Chicago. These solidified
my sense that something deeply significant and elusive takes
place in anxiety. I am thankful to Irad Kimhi for those lectures
and also for directing my attention to Lacan’s work on anxiety.
I am indebted to Erin Plunkett and Rob Penney, my weekly
companions in reading and discussing Heidegger’s and Patočka’s
work over the course of three years. I am also grateful to Erin for
our inspiring conversations about Kierkegaard. Conversations
with Ben Ware and Dave Cerbone, as well as their invaluable
comments on the manuscript at different stages of the project,
were immensely helpful, and I am deeply grateful to both
of them.
Kate Withy’s excellent book on Heidegger and the uncanny
was important for my work; I also thank her for her helpful
comments and discussions on these topics. I must also extend
my thanks to my former colleague Hugo Strandberg for his
thoughtful and insightful comments on the manuscript, and to
Sacha Golob for his feedback on my discussion on wonder in
Heidegger.
xii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Various parts of this work were presented on different

occasions. I received valuable feedback and comments from the
participants of the Philosophy of Education Society of Great
Britain seminar at University College London, the Philosophy
and Psychoanalysis London Group, the Wittgenstein workshop
at the University of East Anglia, the 26th British Wittgenstein
Society annual lecture, the philosophy department seminar at
the University of Nottingham, the conference ‘Too Mad to be
True’ at Ghent University, and the conference ‘Saying Nothing
to Say: Sense, Silence, and Impossible Texts in the Twentieth
Century’ at the University of Warwick.
I am thankful to Liza Thompson at Bloomsbury for
commissioning the book, and to Ben Piggott who took over and
successfully saw this project through.
Constantine Sandis helped initiate this project and I am
grateful for his friendly encouragement.
The writing of the book would not have been possible without
the continuous support of my parents, Giorgos and Olympia, my
sister, Amalia, as well as my friend Amy Tai.
The book is dedicated to my partner, Paul, with love.

London
August 2023
 ABBREVIATIONS

Martin Heidegger:

B&T Being and Time, trans. J. Macquarrie and E. Robinson.

New York: Harper & Row, 1962.

WIM ‘What Is Metaphysics?’. In Basic Writings, ed. and trans.

D.F. Krell. London: Routledge, 2011.

Sigmund Freud:

SE The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological

Works of Sigmund Freud, ed. and trans. James Strachey,
24 Volumes. London: Hogarth Press, 1973.
xiv
 1
Introduction

1.1 Encounters with nothing

We sometimes find ourselves enveloped by overpowering moods1

that are indefinite, devoid of any discernible object or direction.
In these moods, we might, for example, suddenly feel like a weight
is pressing down on us, or, conversely, like a burden has been
lifted and every problem solved, even though when we attempt
to understand the source of such intense affects, we find that no
particular thing is weighing on us and no particular problem
has been solved; our lives have not changed in any perceptible
way but continue to house the same concerns and sources of joy.
Yet, something moves us deeply and shakes us out of our usual
states of mind. Such sudden and momentary shifts of mood
without any discernible cause can seize us unexpectedly amidst
mundane tasks, as we are driving, washing the dishes, getting
dressed.2 Similar to cases of déjà vu, it feels impossible to know
2 ANXIETY AND WONDER

whether the source of the experience is imagined or real, even

though the experience itself is undoubtedly powerful.
In this book, I will treat these cases of being thrown out of
our everyday existence as cases in which we are thrown into
the question of existence, in which who we are and what we are
for emerges as a question. In the history of philosophy, we find
different names for such moods of existence, some with positive
and other with negative affective overtones. Anxiety, wonder,
awe, boredom, nausea are some of them. These terms should not
be regarded as definitive or exhaustive portrayals of these moods:
instead, they serve as umbrella terms that capture the tone of
the experience, sufficiently complex to accommodate variations
depending on who experiences them, when and where, and how
prepared they are for them. In this book I will look mainly at
philosophical descriptions of anxiety and wonder, although, as I
discuss later, in some ways it may be more appropriate to speak
of an anxious wonder. Even though at first sight anxiety and
wonder seem to be opposing moods, within this context3 anxiety
and wonder draw closer and exhibit resemblances.
I am, then, interested more specifically in two kinds of
cases: cases where the suspension of our ordinary lives assumes
the form of an anxious malaise – an overwhelming sense that
suddenly we do not know how to carry on with our lives,
that something feels wrong or unfamiliar – and cases where
this suspension takes a wondrous form, as if something very
 INTRODUCTION 3

obvious about life suddenly became illuminated, leaving us with

contentment. Again, it would be wrong to classify such moments
as solely negative or positive; anxiety and wonder share both the
unsettling sense that the flow of one’s life is suspended for no
apparent reason and the more joyous sense that we have access
to something bigger, beyond our everyday lives. Feelings of
insecurity and malaise can be found within the wonder, as can
feelings of peace and joy within anxiety. This is why when we
experience these moments in their full complexity we can speak
of an anxious wonder.
That such affective experiences have no particular object or
cause, does not mean that there is a specific object but we cannot
identify it yet. Unawareness of the cause does not necessarily
mean that there is no object. For example, sometimes, we
are unclear about what we are affected by, but this may be
because there are multiple objects causing our affective state,
or because there is an object we do not really want to consider.
In such cases, talking to a friend or a psychotherapist can help
us find the source or sources of the mood. But in the cases I
examine ‘entities within the world are not relevant at all’,4 not
even as a totality, when taken together. Rather, here one feels
affected by everything and nothing in particular. By ‘everything’
I do not mean an exhaustive list of all the entities in one’s life –
one’s marriage, job, children, etc. This would take us back to the
case of a mood that is directed to multiple entities.
4 ANXIETY AND WONDER

Because we cannot link such intense feelings to any particular

entity in our world, once the mood dissipates, we often dismiss
the uncanny sensation, by reassuring ourselves that ‘it was
really nothing’. We carry on with our lives as if nothing had
ever happened. If so, if these episodes come and go away, like
fragmentary recollections from our dreams, why choose to
examine them? Why should we direct our attention towards
these inconspicuous, fleeting moments, these encounters with
nothing?

1.2 Learning from our moods

That it is worth attending to our moods as a means of gaining

self-knowledge is not hard to comprehend. Feeling excitement at
the prospect of seeing someone may reveal an underlying love for
that person. Feeling anxious as one’s fiftieth birthday approaches
may reveal that one’s life choices do not reflect what they had
aspired to. A sense of boredom during a date may indicate an
incompatibility between oneself and the other person. In such
instances, the mood has a definite object and reveals something
about that object. If we pose the question, ‘What brings about my
mood?’ we can give answers like ‘this person and my affection
for them’, ‘my life trajectory thus far’ or ‘spending time with this
individual’. Relatedly, the mood invites us to act in a certain
 INTRODUCTION 5

way vis-à-vis the object(s) that elicited it in the first place. For
instance, in the first case, we can acknowledge and express our
feelings; in the second, we can initiate transformative changes
or reconsider our life choices; in the third, we can discontinue
the romantic involvement. In these ordinary cases of being
affected by entities – be they things, situations or people within
our worlds – the revelations offered by these moods concern the
entities involved.
Such cases of learning from our moods align with the
structure of our everyday existence. Most of the time we are
affected by specific entities, which reflects a basic condition of
our existence – what Martin Heidegger refers to as ‘being in
the midst of entities’. Daily activities like brushing our teeth,
checking our smartphone, embracing our loved ones, cooking,
daydreaming, meeting friends, working, eating, watching a film,
listening to music or reading a newspaper exemplify the simple
ways in which we find ourselves amidst entities (toothbrushes,
phones, others, food, dreams, films, news, etc.). This does not
mean that we never encounter the absence of entities. Indeed,
within our everyday lives and involvements, we also encounter
entities in their absence; we encounter entities as absent. The
entities and activities we are engaged with in our everyday
life can break down, disappear, come to an end. People die,
relationships end, jobs are lost, tools break down. But such cases
of absence still fall within the habitual mode I have described.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The well in
the desert
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The well in the desert

Author: Adeline Knapp

Release date: June 10, 2022 [eBook #68279]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Century Co, 1908

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file
was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELL IN

THE DESERT ***
Transcriber’s Note:
The cover image was created by the transcriber
and is placed in the public domain.
THE WELL IN THE DESERT

BY
ADELINE KNAPP

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1908
 Copyright, 1908, by
The Century Co.

Published August, 1908

All rights reserved

THE DE VINNE PRESS

TO

A. L. C.

IN MEMORY OF DESERT DAYS

AND GREEN PASTURES
 BOOK ONE
THE VALLEY OF BACA
 THE WELL IN THE DESERT

CHAPTER I

Blue Gulch was relaxing after the ardors of its working-day. From the
direction of the Cheerful Heart Dance Hall issued sounds of mirth
and festivity, and a weaving fantasy of shadows on its canvas walls
proclaimed to those without that the cheerful hearts were in
executive session.
A man coming furtively along Upper Broadway made a detour to
avoid the bar of light that shone through the open door of the hall.
He passed behind the building, and around the big fandango, where
the trip of feet mingled with the tinkle of a guitar and the whirr and
thump of a wheel of fortune.
“It can’t be anywhere along here,” he muttered, coming back to the
road and pausing to survey the starlit scene.
Blue Gulch had but one street, the two sides of which lay at
different levels, separated by the wide yawn of the gulch itself,
thrusting into the mountain from the desert below. From where the
man stood he commanded a very complete view of the place. In
nearly every house was a light, and the shadows thrown upon the
canvas walls gave a fair clue to the occupations of those within; so
that during the early part of each evening at least neither half of the
town need be in any doubt as to how the other half was living.
The life and gaiety of the community in relaxation seemed to
gather upon the upper plane. Across the gulch Lower Broadway lay
in comparative darkness.
The man drew back again as a couple of shadowy forms came
wavering down the road. One of these carried a lantern, which hung
low at his side, revealing the heavy miners’ boots of the pair, and
casting grotesque shadows up the mountain-side.
“Where’s Westcott? Why ain’t he along?” one asked, as they
passed.
The skulking figure in the shadow strained his ears to listen, one
hand pressed upon his mouth to keep back the cough that would
have betrayed him.
“He’s back at his office, digging,” was the careless response.
“Westcott ain’t a very cheerful cuss.”
The two laughed lightly, and disappeared within the dance-hall.
When they were out of sight the man came forth again, hurrying
past the glowing windows of the Red Light Saloon, stopping beyond
it to muffle with his shapeless hat the cough that took toll of his
strength. He leaned panting against a boulder, waiting to regain his
breath.
The way was more dimly lighted now. He was nearing the civic
center of the place, the one bit of level ground in the gulch. Here, a
faint light showing from one window, was the mining company’s
hospital. Beyond this the man passed a big, barn-like structure of
wood, that announced itself, by a huge, white-lettered sign, showing
faintly in the starlight, as an eating-house. Next it was the low adobe
hotel of the place, and farther on, beyond a dark gap, was a small
building, boasting a door and two windows in its narrow front.
The visitor regarded this place consideringly. He thought it more
than likely that it was what he sought. Light streamed from both
windows and, stepping close, the prowler looked within.
What he saw was a man writing at a rough pine desk. The room
was not large. One or two chairs, a couch, and some rude shelves,
where a few law books leaned; a small earthen-ware stove, now
glowing with heat, completed its furnishings. The watcher’s eyes
yearned to that stove. He was shivering in the chill autumn night,
and he wore no coat. With a muttered curse he opened the door and
stepped quickly into the room.
 The man inside looked up from his writing, peering past the lamp
the better to see his visitor. For a moment he stared, incredulous,
then, as recognition was confirmed, he softly slid a hand toward one
drawer of his desk. The new-comer noted the movement.
“You can stow that,” he snarled, scornfully, “I haven’t got any gun.”
The other’s fingers had already closed upon the handle of a
revolver that lay in the drawer. With the weapon in his hand he
crossed quickly, from one window to the other, and carefully pulled
down the shades. The intruder had stepped into the full glare of the
lamp, and now bent forward, his hands upon the desk.
As he stood thus, gaunt, haggard, panting, he seemed little
calculated to awaken fear. The hands that clutched the table’s edge
were trembling and emaciated, and of a curious, waxy pallor. This
same pallor was in his drawn, sunken face, and from out the death-
like mask of its whiteness the man’s deep-set eyes gazed, heavy with
despair.
“I haven’t got any gun, Westcott,” he repeated. “You needn’t be
afraid. You played a damned, dirty trick on me, three years ago, but
that’s all done with. I ain’t here to throw it up against you; but I want
you to do me a favor.”
The lawyer had turned the key in the lock and stood near the door,
watching him intently, noting the close-cropped head, the thin, pallid
face, the nondescript garments of the wayfarer.
“You managed to escape,” he finally said, slowly.
“Yes, I did.” The man coughed, clutching the table for support.
“I got away last week,” he explained, panting. “Yes—and I stole the
clothes,” with a glance at the sleeves of his rough gray shirt. “I’m a
thief, now, just like you, Westcott.”
The other made an inarticulate sound in his throat.
“We’ll let all that pass,” the intruder said, with a toss of one gaunt
hand. “I’m up to no harm, but I’ve got to have help. I’ve got out of
that hell you left me in at Phoenix; but it won’t do me any good. I’m
dying!”
Another fit of coughing shook him, until he reeled. Westcott
pushed a chair toward him and he sank into it, still gripping the
table.
 “I’m dying,” he said again, when the cough had spent itself, “and I
want to get back and die in God’s country.”
Westcott sat down opposite him, still watching him, intently.
“I can’t walk back,” the man went on, “and I ain’t fit to beat it back.
You’re welcome to the fifteen hundred you got off me; but can’t you—
for the love of God, won’t you—give me the price of a ticket back to
Iowa?”
His dull, sunken eyes were akindle, and he leaned forward, an
agony of eagerness in his eyes. The prison-born look of age fell from
him for the moment and it became apparent that he was not only a
young man, but must once have been a comely one, with a powerful
frame.
“I heard you were attorney for the Company here,” he went on, as
Westcott still kept silent. “You ought to be able to do that for me. You
had fifteen hundred of mine.”
The attorney flinched, ever so slightly, then he rose, dropping the
revolver into his coat-pocket, and took a turn about the room.
“I—I wasn’t such a beast as it looks,” he finally said, speaking with
difficulty. “I’ve been ashamed of myself: I meant to stay and try to
clear you. I don’t know how I came to do it; but Jim Texas swore’t
was you; and I lost the money playing faro at Randy Melone’s.”
The brief glow in the sunken eyes had burned itself out. The man
surveyed Westcott, apparently without interest.
“Jim Texas lied,” he said, apathetically, “and now you’re lying. You
paid some of that money to Raoul Marty for a horse; and you got
away with most of the rest of it in your clothes. You can hear things,
even in jail.” This was said with a weary laugh, in which was no
mirth.
“You don’t always hear ’em straight,” the attorney replied, with
studied gentleness.
“I was ashamed, Barker,” he went on, quickly. “I’ve been sorry
ever since.”
“Then you’ll give me the price of a ticket?” Hope gleamed again, in
the dull eyes. Westcott considered.
“I haven’t got the money here,” he mused; “but I think I can raise
some by to-morrow. How would you get down to the railroad?”
 “I’ll take care o’ that—” another siege of that racking cough. Barker
leaned back in his chair, faint and gasping. Westcott drew a flask and
poured some of its contents into a tin cup. The other drained it,
eagerly.
“That’ll help,” he murmured, handing back the cup. “I ain’t always
so weak as this; but I’ve been hitting the trail for a week, without
much grub.”
“Did anyone see you come in?” Westcott asked, with apparent
irrelevance.
“No. I kept out of sight.”
“Good!” The other nodded. “That’s what you’ll have to keep doing.”
“I’ve got to go out and see what I can do about that money,” he
continued; “and you’ve got to have something to eat. I guess I’ll have
to lock you in here while I’m gone, in case anyone should come
along. You needn’t be afraid but that I’ll come back,” he added, as the
other looked up, in quick suspicion. “It’s safer so, and I want you to
have something to eat.”
“I sure need it,” was the reply. “Mighty bad.”
“I know you do; I’ll bring it soon’s I can.” Westcott moved toward
the door. “You lay low till I get back.”
“You’re not going back on me?” Barker still studied him.
“Going back on you?” Westcott laughed, shortly.
“Lord!” he exclaimed, “Do you think I didn’t have enough of that?”
He threw some lumps of coal into the little stove. “I’ll have to
douse the glim,” he explained, “since I’ll be out around town, and
someone might wonder who’s here. You can lie down there.”
He waved a hand toward the couch and Barker nodded.
“I’m pegged out,” he said, wearily. “I’ll just sit here by the fire.
Lord! How long is it since I’ve been warm?”
He drew his chair nearer and bent to the glow. Westcott lowered
the light and blew out the flame.
“I’ll lock the door on the outside,” he said, “And don’t you worry,
Barker: I’ll take care of you. Just trust me.”
“I guess I’ve got to trust you,” was the helpless reply, “I can’t do
anything else.” And Westcott stepped out into the night, locking the
door behind him.
Once outside he walked along the plaza to the head of the gulch
and stood looking down upon the town. The varied sounds of a
mining settlement at night came plainly to his ears. A new dancer
from over the border was making her first appearance at Garvanza’s
that evening, and the Mexicans were gathered in force. There was a
crowd of miners in the Red Light Saloon. He could hear their voices.
“How I hate it all,” he muttered. “I wish I was out of it!”
The post-office was on Lower Broadway in the Company’s store,
where a single light burned, dimly. Farther down was the school-
house, where the school-teacher labored by day, with the half-dozen
white children of the town, and twice as many young Papegoes.
Behind the gulch, climbing heavenward, verdureless, copper-ribbed,
austere, lay the mountain, where the mines were.
Westcott had been in Blue Gulch for more than a year. He had
drifted out of Phoenix after the Barker affair, glad to get away, where
he was sure no one knew of the matter.
There had been no question about Barker’s guilt. Jim Texas swore
to having seen him knife Lundy. He couldn’t have saved him if he
had stayed, Westcott told himself. He had never understood why
they had not hung the fellow, instead of sentencing him for life.
“Better have done it outright than to kill him by inches in their hell
of a jail,” he thought.
But now what was to be done with the man? Westcott stood
scowling at a house down the gulch. There was a light inside that
threw upon the canvas side-wall the gigantic figure of a woman,
coughing. It reminded him unpleasantly of Barker.
“Damn the fellow,” he muttered. “Wha’d he come up here for,
anyway? He’ll never live to get back east.” He walked on, turning up
the collar of his coat. “It’s coming winter. The cold’ll kill him.”
Again he stood pondering, while one by one the lights down the
gulch went out. Then he bethought himself of his errand and went
stumbling down Lower Broadway in the dark.
The storekeeper was just closing up, but the young fellow turned
back to wait upon him.
 “I won’t keep you more’n a minute, Farthing,” he said, and
proceeded to buy bread and cheese, a tin of meat and a couple of
bottles of beer. A little package of tea was an after-thought.
“Going prospecting, Mr. Westcott?” the clerk asked, as he made up
the packages.
“Maybe,” was the reply.
Westcott was at the door as he spoke. Young Farthing was putting
out the light.
“Oh, Johnnie,” the attorney said, with the air of just remembering,
“I want to telephone ... ‘long distance.’ I’m afraid it’ll take some
time.” He half hesitated.
The boy looked disappointed; he had planned to get over to the
fandango in time to see the new dancer. He spoke cheerfully
however.
“That’s all right, Mr. Westcott,” he said, and turned up the lamp
again.
“Why can’t I lock up, Johnnie?” Westcott asked; “I’ll bring the key
up to the hotel when I come.”
“If you wouldn’t mind—” Farthing looked relieved, “Everything’s
all right but just turning out the light,” he added.
“All right.” Westcott gave him a little push; “You go on,” he said,
cordially; “I can lock the door as hard as you!”
“I guess that’s true, Mr. Westcott,” the boy laughed, and with a
relieved “good-night,” he departed, as Westcott was turning toward
the telephone-booth.
Half an hour later the attorney was in his own office, boiling water
in a tin pail, on top of the little stove, while Barker, warmed and
cheered, made great inroads upon the bread and cheese and the
tinned meat. Presently Westcott made tea in the pail.
“Seems like old prospecting days, don’t it?” he said with
ostentatious cheerfulness, as he filled the tin cup. “I dare say you’ve
had your share of them?”
“Some.... A-a-h!” Barker drank, blissfully, of the strong, scalding
brew.
“I located a good claim once,” he said, setting down the cup. “But it
was jumped. All I ever got was—”
 He paused, in some embarrassment, and changed the subject.
“Great stuff, that tea,” he said, and Westcott refilled the tin cup.
“I’ve done better for you than I hoped to,” he volunteered
presently. “I couldn’t raise the money in the town—too near pay-day;
but I got a pal of mine on the ’phone. He can let me have the cash,
and I’ll get it to-morrow. Don’t you worry, Barker.” He answered the
question, in the other’s eyes, “I’m looking out for you all right. You
don’t need to worry.”
“I’m a pretty sick man,” Barker answered, his white face flushing.
“I know I’m done for; but I want to die in the open.”
“Don’t you talk about dying.” Westcott went about the place
making it secure for the night. “You’ll be snug as can be here,” he
added, “By seven o’clock to-morrow morning this town’ll be
practically empty. All the men’ll be at the mine. Sime’s going down to
the plain to meet the stage, and the school-teacher’ll be busy. We’ll
get you off in good shape.”
He took some papers from the desk and put them in his pocket.
“I wouldn’t show myself, though,” he said. “Keep the curtains
down, and lay low. Lock the door after me, and take out the key.”
At the last words the man’s look of anxiety vanished.
“All right,” he replied. “I’ll sure lay low. I haven’t slept much in a
week. I’ll be glad enough to take the chance.”
“So long, then,” Westcott said, slipping out.
“So long,” and the key turned in the lock.
 CHAPTER II

Having secured the door, Barker took the key from the lock and hung
his hat upon the knob.
“Don’t want anyone peeking in,” he murmured, as he resumed his
seat by the fire. He was no longer cold, but there was companionship
in its glow.
The meager little office was a palace compared with the cell from
which he had escaped, he thought as he looked about him in the dim
light from the open door of the stove.
“If he plays me any more tricks—” His mind reverted to Westcott,
and the cold sweat stood upon his forehead at the idea of possible
treachery.
“Pshaw!” he muttered. “There’s nothing more he can do. He’s done
it all. God! To think I swore to kill him at sight, and here I am
begging favors of him.”
The angry snarl in his voice changed to a cough, and ended in a
whimper.
“I couldn’t do anything else,” he pleaded, as though arguing with
someone. “I want to get back east. I want to die in the open. Hell! I
was going mad in that hole.”
He rested his head between his fists, torturing himself with
memories of the days before he crossed the Divide, the youngest
chain-man in the surveyors’ gang of a projected new railroad. He had
come from Iowa, and boy-like he sang the praises of his native state
all across the alkali plains, until, in derision, his fellows dubbed him
“the Iowa barker.”
The name stuck. In Nevada he was plain “Barker.” The others
seemed to have forgotten his real name, and as Barker, when he left
the outfit, he drifted down into Arizona. He blessed the easy
transition when the trouble came that fixed the killing of big Dan
Lundy on him. He had kept his real name secret through all that
came after.
What had it all been about? What was he doing here to-night? Why
hadn’t he killed Westcott, instead of sitting here by his fire?
 He passed a wavering hand before his eyes. Oh, yes. Now he
remembered. Westcott was going to send him east—to God’s country.
Meanwhile, he was dead for sleep. He caught himself, as he lurched
in his chair, and rising heavily, he threw himself upon the couch.
It was past noon when he woke. The sun lighted the yellow
curtains; the door stood open, and Westcott bent over him, shaking
him by the shoulder.
“Barker! Barker!” the attorney called.
“Barker! Wake up! Time to get out of this. I’ve got a chance to send
you down to the railroad.”
By degrees he struggled to consciousness, and sat up. Westcott had
brought him a big cup of steaming coffee.
“Drink this,” he said, not unkindly.
“My friend came up with the money,” he went on, as Barker drank,
sitting sidewise on the couch. “He’s going to take you down in his
buggy. He’ll fix you up all right.”
Barker was still dazed with sleep. His ears rang, and the lawyer’s
voice sounded strange and far away. The coffee made him feel better.
It soothed the cough that had racked him the moment he sat up.
“Now eat some grub,” Westcott said.
He had brought food from the hotel. Barker was still too far off to
wonder at this. He had no desire for food, but he ate, obediently.
Westcott, meantime, had gone outside. In front of the hotel stood a
big, rangy bay horse, hitched to a light road-wagon. Near the outfit
lounged a tall, determined-looking man, who came forward when he
saw the attorney.
“I’ve got to be getting a move on soon,” he said. “It’ll be late night,
as ’tis, before we get there.”
“He’ll be ready in the shake of a horn,” the other replied.
“Say, Frank,” he continued. “He don’t know who you are. I’ve let
on you’re a friend of mine, going to take him down. Let him think
that till you get out of town.”
“Must be a dead easy one,” the man addressed as Frank said.
“Well, you see,” Westcott laughed, nervously, “I doped him pretty
well last night—the poor devil coughed so,” he added, in explanation,
and the deputy sheriff gave a grunt that might mean anything. It
brought a flush of embarrassment to Westcott’s face.
“Come on,” he said, shortly, turning toward his office. The deputy
climbed into his buggy and drove after him.
“Got to hurry, Barker,” Westcott called, opening the door.
He escorted his charge briskly outside.
“This is Mr. Arnold,” he mumbled, beside the wagon. “A friend of
mine that’ll see you fixed all right.”
The man holding the reins scrutinized Barker closely as the latter
climbed up beside him.
“All right,” he decided, finally, speaking to Westcott, and handed
the attorney a folded paper.
“That’s what you were after,” he said, briefly. “So long.”
A word to the bay colt and they were swinging down Upper
Broadway at a pace that made Barker catch his breath as he noted
the narrow road, and the steep cañon-side.
“It’d sure be a long fall,” his companion said, answering his look,
“But we ain’t goin’ to take it. You can bank on the colt. He’s sure-
footed as a deer.”
“I ain’t afraid,” Barker responded. The fresh, sweet air was
beginning to clear his brain and he sat up straighter, a touch of color
coming into his death-like face. The other man avoided his glance,
giving all his attention to the colt, who was swiftly putting distance
between them and the town. The exigencies of the steep, rough road
made such attention necessary and neither man spoke again until
they had traversed the narrow pass, and were out of the gulch. A
sudden turn of the way brought them among the foothills, the broad,
yellow expanse of cactus-dotted plain before them.
“Doesn’t seem as far as it did when I footed it in last night,” Barker
said at last, with an attempt to smile, and Arnold nodded. The bay
colt was a good traveler, and they were on the level now, following
the road that wound its spiritless, grey way among the cacti. The colt
took it in long, free strides, that promised to get them somewhere by
daylight.
“Good horse you got there,” Barker said, with a country-bred
man’s interest in animals. “Mighty good shoulders.”
 “You bet!” was the deputy’s hearty response. “Good for all day,
too.”
“I raised him myself,” he went on, “and he’s standard bred, too,
Daystar, out’n an Alcantara mare.” He spoke with proper pride, as
the owner of a good horse may.
“They raise some fine stock back in Iowa,” Barker remarked, and
his companion’s fount of speech seemed suddenly to run dry. Barker
waited, expectant, for some little time.
“Where are we going to hit the railroad?” He asked, at last.
“The railroad?” Arnold looked puzzled.
“Westcott said you’d land me where I could get the train east,” the
other explained. “He said you had the price of a ticket for me. It’s all
on the level, ain’t it?” he demanded, his voice going higher.
“Oh—Oh! yes, yes! It’s all fixed. Don’t you worry none.” The bronze
of the deputy’s face crimsoned.
“Don’t you worry none,” he repeated, with a glance at the sky.
An ominous cloud lowered, overhead. The sun was hidden, and the
air had grown chill. A fit of coughing had followed Barker’s flash of
excitement, and he crouched in his seat, shivering slightly.
“Look here,” Arnold exclaimed, “you ain’t dressed warm enough.
They’s some kind of weather breeding.”
He reached beneath the wagon-seat and pulled forth his own coat.
“Put this on,” he directed. “I’ve got my sweater on, and don’t need
it.”
Barker pushed it back.
“I’m all right,” he said. “You’ll need that yourself.”
“You do what I tell you,” the deputy insisted. “Put it over your
shoulders. The wind’s at your back.”
He thrust the garment across his companion’s wasted shoulders
and Barker drew the sleeves across his chest.
As he did so his hand touched something hard, under one lapel. He
glanced down at it, and started.
“What’s that?” he cried, turning the metal badge up for closer
inspection.
A groan of horror escaped him as he recognized the object.